The case of the missing books

by Ian Sansom

  'No, go ahead.'

  Ted and Israel left John Boyd's caravan with a bag full of audio books and John doing some hamstring stretches.

  'Was he blind since birth?' asked Israel, as they piled the books into the van.

  'No. He was caught in a bomb blast, up in Belfast.'

  'That's terrible.'

  'Yeah, it was. His wife died.'

  'God.'

  'Don't take the Lord's name in vain.'

  'Sorry.'

  'Thank you. Now you get in the back there,' said Ted, pointing to the dark interior of the van.

  'What?'

  'To count the books.'

  'Oh.'

  Israel counted, all the way back to Tumdrum, and with some allowance for bumps in the road he made a total of 284 books and 75 audio books.

  'Well?' said Ted, as they pulled up outside Tumdrum Library.

  'What's seventy-five plus two hundred and eighty-four?' said Israel. 'Three hundred and fifty-nine?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Anyway, so what's fifteen thousand take away three hundred and fifty-nine?'

  'Ach, Israel,' said Ted, 'my mental arithmetic's not what it was.'

  'Fourteen thousand, six hundred and forty-one?'

  'Sounds about right,' said Ted.

  'So that's it: we've got approximately fourteen thousand, six hundred and forty-one books left to find.'

  'Not bad then.'

  'That's terrible,' said Israel. 'It'll take us years.'

  'You know what they say?' said Ted.

  'No.'

  'Patience and perseverance would take a snail to Jerusalem.'

  'What?'

  'We'll have this all rightened out before Christmas.'

  'Hanukkah.'

  'Bless you.'

  17

  They were on the road together for the best part of a week, Ted and Israel, starting off from Tumdrum around eight every morning and not getting back until much before seven, day in, day out, rounding up books from outlying farms, and from schools and hospices, and old people's homes, and big houses and flats, and a few places down almost as far as Ballymena and up almost to Coleraine, past the Giant's Causeway, and the strain was beginning to tell. Israel had drunk enough tea to drown himself and eaten enough wee buns to weigh him down while he was drowning, and everyone they met and everywhere they went was slowly becoming a murky blur, a giant milky-tea-and-biscuit-tray of Achesons and Agnews and Begleys and Buchanans, all handing back their Jilly Coopers and their Catherine Cooksons and talking so fast and in accents so impenetrable that Israel just nodded, sipped tea and ate more buns, and let Ted do all the talking. A few faces and a few places stood out: he remembered the ancient and improbable vegetarian Mrs Roulston, for example, who'd done them a nice vegetable stew for lunch one day, and who lived all by herself in a painfully neat flat above her son's butcher's shop somewhere down near Ballygodknowswhere, and who had somehow ended up with all sixty-one volumes of the library's collected St Aquinas, which she'd been working through and testing by the yardstick of the Holy Bible and her own strong Presbyterian faith; and it turned out that he had the wrong end of the stick, apparently, Aquinas. Israel also remembered a Mr H. R. Whoriskey, a big fleshy man with Brylcreemed hair, who had the library's complete set of 1970s lavishly illustrated volumes on amateur photography, featuring bikini-clad beauties and women with perms in see-through blouses, and a disturbing number of books about Hitler and the Third Reich. Also, he had dogs.

  Ted and Israel had rounded up audio books, and tape cassettes, and fiction and non-fiction, and children's books, and reference works that should never have left the library in the first place, and they had a haul so big now it could have filled at least a few shelves in the mobile library, although, as it was, they were in carrier bags in the back of the van.

  'What's the tally, Mr Tallyman?' asked Ted.

  'Erm.' Israel consulted the tally book while Ted started singing.

  'Come, Mr Tallyman, tally me bananas!'

  'Ted! Ted!'

  'What?'

  'You're giving me a headache, Ted.'

  'Aye. Right. Well. And the vice versa.'

  'Anyway, the total for this week,' announced Israel wearily, reading from the tally book. 'Is four hundred and thirty-seven books, comprising fiction, non-fiction and children's titles; one hundred and twenty-two audio books; forty-two tape cassettes; five CD-ROMs; fourteen videos; an unbound set of last year's National Geographic magazine, and the Sopranos first series on DVD. God.'

  'Aye, right, mind your language,' said Ted. 'How many's that leave us?'

  'Erm. Hang on. Let me work it out.' Israel took a Biro and had a quick go at the sums.

  'Come, Mr Tallyman…'

  'Ted!'

  'What?'

  'Nothing. I think we're still missing about fourteen thousand.'

  'It's a start,' said Ted.

  'Yeah, well. It's only a start. There's only so many overdue books out there, Ted. We're never going to get them all back like this.'

  'Ach, your glass always half empty, is it?'

  'Yes, it is actually.'

  'Then you need to learn to graze where you're tethered, but.'

  'What?'

  'It's a saying.'

  'Right. Meaning?'

  'We're doing what we can, and we're doing it methodo…'

  'Methodically.'

  'That's it.'

  'It's not getting us very far, though, is it?'

  'Ach, will you give over moaning? It's like throwing water over a dog.'

  'What?'

  'It's just a—'

  'Saying, right. Well I'm just saying we're never going to get them all back like this. You know that and I know that. Someone's stolen the books. We need to find out who.'

  'Aye, aye, right, but it's the weekend now, so you'll have to get back to your mysteryfying on Monday, Inspector Clouseau.'

  'But—'

  Ted turned up a lane.

  'We just need to take a wee skite in here,' said Ted, ignoring Israel, as usual, 'see Dennis about the shelves, get her measured up, and then I'm away home. Friday's my night with the BB.'

  'The who B?'

  'Boys' Brigade.'

  'Right. Sorry, I have absolutely no idea what that is, Ted–what is it, like an army or something?'

  'Ach, where are you from, boy? It's like the Scouts, but, except more…'

  'What? Gay?'

  'Protestant.'

  'Jesus.'

  'Israel!'

  'Sorry, Ted.'

  'So anyway, you'll be doing the last call yerself. It's up by the Devines' there–if I drop you off you can walk down the wee rodden when you're done, sure. Bring you out by the big red barn.'

  'Which big red barn?'

  There were quite a lot to choose from round and about.

  'The Devines' big red barn. "Awake To Righteousness Not Sin".'

  'Oh, right, that big red barn, yes.'

  Israel had quickly become accustomed to seeing walls and barns and signs painted with light-hearted biblical texts and evangelical appeals, which he'd found shocking at first, the reminder that 'Brief Life Here Is Our Portion', or that 'And After This, The Judgement', but you can get used to anything, it seems. He now found something of a comfort in the thought that all this was temporary.

  'Yeah, that's fine,' said Israel, who had also become accustomed to agreeing eventually to whatever Ted suggested.

  'Good. Dennis's first then.'

  They drove up the long lane to a tall red-brick building, taller than it was wide, and which must have commanded fantastic views from the top.

  'What's this place?' said Israel.

  'Dennis's? It's the old water tower.'

  'It's amazing.'

  'It's an old water tower.'

  'Towers are very important, you know, to the Irish imagination. I read a book once—'

  'Ah'm sure. Well, I'll tell you what's important to this Irish imagination. Getting these shelves sorted and getting h
ome for my tea.'

  Ted pulled up the van and honked the horn.

  A man appeared at an upper window of the tower.

  'Dennis,' shouted Ted, getting out of the van.

  'Ted,' shouted the man at the window, who was bearded, and probably about the same age as Israel and probably half his weight. He reappeared at the bottom of the tower a few minutes later.

  'Dennis, Israel,' said Ted. 'Israel, Dennis.'

  'Hello.'

  'Pleased to meet you,' said Israel. Dennis seemed to be splattered all over with paint.

  'Shelves for the library then, is it?' said Dennis, in businesslike fashion.

  'Aye.'

  'I'll need to measure her up.'

  'Help yourself. Israel, open her up there for Dennis, will you?'

  Israel and Dennis climbed into the back of the van.

  'Where d'you want them?' asked Dennis.

  'Down the sides, I suppose. I can ask Ted.' Israel stuck his head out of the window. 'Ted, where do we want the shelves?'

  'Where d'you think, Einstein? On the ceiling?'

  'Yeah, along the side,' said Israel to Dennis.

  'Fine. Hold this then.' He gave Israel the end of his tape measure.

  'How long have you been in this old game?' asked Israel, which was the question he asked everyone he didn't know what to say to.

  'What game?'

  'This, er, game. You know, erm…'

  'I'm not.'

  'What?'

  'I just do it on the side, like. Bend down,' said Dennis. 'Lovely.'

  Ted appeared at the front of the van, smoking.

  'Garden's looking well for the time of year, Dennis.'

  'Aye.'

  'Leeks and potatoes, is it?'

  'Aye.'

  'What's your day job then?' asked Israel.

  'I'm a painter.'

  'Oh, that's handy. You can do the joinery then and the painting and decorating?'

  'No,' said Dennis, unimpressed. 'I'm an actual painter.'

  'He does portraits and everything,' explained Ted.

  'Oh, gosh. Sorry,' said Israel.

  'He's been to college and everything,' said Ted. 'Where was that place you went? He'll know. He's from England.'

  'It's a big place, England,' said Israel, laughing. 'There's a lot of colleges.'

  'The Royal Academy,' said Dennis.

  'Oh. Right. Yes.'

  'Other side then,' said Dennis, and they moved to the other side of the van to start measuring.

  'You heard of that?' asked Ted.

  'Yes. Yes. That's quite famous,' said Israel.

  'Bend down.'

  Israel, embarrassed, bent down.

  'That'll do, then,' said Dennis. 'What do you want them in, Ted?'

  'I don't know,' said Ted. 'You know the council. They're going to want the cheapest, aren't they?'

  'MDF then?'

  'Aye, I s'pose.'

  'You'd be better with something a wee bit more sturdy, like,' said Dennis, 'Even for the look of it just.'

  'Aye, I know, but.'

  'D'you want to come in the workshop, have a look at what I've got? I've maybe something recyclable.'

  Dennis's workshop was a red brick outbuilding behind the tower, stuffed to overflowing, literally stuffed to overflowing, stuff coming out of the doors and windows, like it was making an escape for the wild across the gravelly yard: old broken-down bits of furniture, and tables, and chairs, and picture frames, and window frames, and doors, and planks, anything wooden, like something out of Walt Disney's Fantasia. Inside there was an overpowering smell of polish and sawdust.

  'This is like an Aladdin's cave,' said Israel, noticing cartwheels and a rocking horse, and a couple of old shop display cabinets.

  'Everybody says that.'

  'Oh, sorry.'

  'It's all right. It is like Aladdin's cave. I just get used to it, I suppose.'

  'What's it all for? Do you collect it?'

  'Ach, no. I do a bit of conservation, like. Restoration. You know.'

  'Right,' said Israel.

  'D'you have any waney-edge?' asked Ted, who was poking around in a pile of logs. 'Just, I'm thinking of putting up a wee bit of fencing, for the dog.'

  'Maybe somewhere, Ted. I'll have to look around.'

  'Right enough.'

  'Here's the planks but,' said Dennis, pointing to a row of old and seasoned timber stacked against the wall.

  'That oak?' said Ted, pointing to a beautiful big golden plank with silvery flashes.

  'Aye,' said Dennis. 'That was off of a trawler I think, down County Down.'

  'Lovely that, isn't it, Israel?' said Ted.

  Israel did his best to show enthusiasm for the old plank. 'Mmm,' he said. 'Yes. That's lovely.'

  'We've got more oak here,' said Dennis, moving along the row of planks, running his hand across the wood. 'More oak. Elm. Mahogany. Teak. Walnut. Ash. There's cupping on some, but, so you wouldn't get the full length.'

  'Cupping?' said Israel.

  'A wee bit bowed, just,' said Dennis. 'Well?'

  'What do you think?' Israel asked Ted.

  'You're the boss,' said Ted. 'But in my opinion–I'm biased, mind–the old girl deserves the best.'

  In the end, with Dennis's guidance and Ted's encouragement, Israel chose some old beech which had apparently originally graced the floor of a dance hall down in Belfast that Ted had once been to: it certainly had a beautiful grain. And it was considerably more expensive than the MDF.

  'You'll square that with Linda then, will you, Israel?' said Ted.

  'Oh yes,' said Israel. 'I think I can handle Linda.'

  'Aye,' said Ted. 'Ah'm sure.'

  Before they left, Dennis fetched a carrier bag full of books from the tower.

  'Blimey,' said Ted when Dennis handed them over. 'What have you got in there?'

  'It's art monographs, mainly,' said Dennis. 'And I threw in a few spares in case. Exhibition catalogues and what have you.'

  'Great,' said Israel. 'That's brilliant.'

  'Have those shelves for you beginning of next week, Ted,' said Dennis.

  'Aye. Right enough,' said Ted. 'Bye then.'

  'This is you then. I'll set you down here,' said Ted, about ten minutes after they'd left Dennis. 'Last call. You're doing it yerself, remember? I've to get on to the BB. I'll drop the van in to the farm later.'

  'Oh, yes. Sure.'

  Israel went to get out of the van.

  'It's just up yonder there. And when you're done, look, it's back down here and left down the rodden there, and you'll be back at the farm in ten minutes.'

  'Right. OK. Whose house is this then?'

  'Pearce Pyper, he's called. You'll like him. He's more your sort.'

  'What's that supposed to mean?'

  'Well, you know, he's a bit…'

  'What?'

  'Ach, Israel, I don't know. Nyiffy-nyaffy.'

  'What? What does that mean?'

  'It's a—'

  'Saying?'

  'Right. Bye! See you Monday.' And Ted leant over, pulled the door shut, and drove off.

  Approaching Pearce Pyper's house up the long gravel drive in the dusk, Israel was immediately struck by what appeared to be examples of very, very bad decommissioned public art: large chunks of painted concrete lined the driveway, like giant discarded baubles, and there were also driftwood sculptures, resembling large, soft, melted Greek statues, and then closer towards the house were what appeared to be wonky totem poles set at intervals along the driveway, their wings and arms outstretched in welcome and benediction, bulbous, beastly heads nodding at the visitor's approach. It was like walking into a Native American reservation, except the totem poles seemed to have been crafted out of old railway sleepers rather than giant native sequoias, and fixed together with carriage bolts, and screws and nails, and painted with thick exterior gloss. The trees that flanked these curious, echt sculptures had been variously pleached, espaliered and cordoned, giving them the appearance of having
been shaped out of old scraps of tanalised timber rather than having actually grown up naturally from the earth.

  If the approach to the house was a little unusual, the house itself, when Israel finally reached it, was in comparison a welcome reassurance and really only in the mildest degree eccentric: an example of the late nineteenth-century baronial extended and renovated by someone with an interest in thirteenth-century Moorish palaces, and the Arts and Crafts movement, and Le Corbusier, and fretwork DIY. There was much use of rusted metal and carved oak, and palm trees, and concrete-rendered empty space. What was amazing was that it worked, after a fashion. It was a house that seemed to reflect the inner workings of a human mind, and the gardens surrounding the house did the same: there was black bamboo growing out of huge concrete boulders; and giant carved heads set with gaping mouths, half human, and half Wotan, spitting out ivy; and dozens of topiaried shrubs, perfect little nymphs and huntsmen and hares cavorting along the tops of hedges and the lawn in a shrubby kind of dance; and huge mosaic containers shaped like women bearing mosaic containers shaped like women bearing mosaic containers; and a pond shaped like a DNA double helix, its surface brilliant with algae. There was richness of colour and variety everywhere you looked, and over-sized, frivolous, brilliant plants, and for all the apparent chaos Israel had to admit it was one of the most beautiful, composed gardens he had ever seen: it was a pure act of human wilfulness and exuberance; it was the work of an artist.

  Israel pulled at the big chain doorbell at the front door, which rang ominously. The big oak door was open, and there were cardboard boxes piled up inside the hall. But no one came. So Israel called out.

  'Hello? Hello? Anybody in?'

  He didn't like this at all: calling unannounced at people's houses with Ted he'd found difficult enough; it seemed like bad manners. Back in London, if you wanted to see someone you texted or rang at least a week in advance and left a message on their mobile. Turning up at people's houses on spec in a beaten-up old van with Ted to collect library books was not what he'd imagined he'd be doing when he took on the job in Tumdrum: he felt like a book-vigilante, which is exactly how they'd been treated on some calls. Some places they'd gone to collect the books, children had been sent to answer the door.

  'My mum's not in,' the little children would say, although you could clearly see their mums hiding in the kitchen, or in the front room, watching the telly.

  'Tell your mum I'm no' the tick man or the coal man,' Ted would say. 'I'm from the library.'